


The Fighter

by fiacresgirl



Category: Arrow (TV 2012)
Genre: Blow Jobs, F/M, Fight Club - Freeform, Fighting Rings, First Time Blow Jobs, Prostitution, Russia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-17
Updated: 2016-07-17
Packaged: 2018-07-24 14:22:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,728
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7511656
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fiacresgirl/pseuds/fiacresgirl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A snapshot of Oliver Queen in Russia pre-Bratva. (Brief mention of Olicity)</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Fighter

**Author's Note:**

> This is how I saw Oliver's life in Russia before Bratva, based on the S5 pic Stephen Amell released this week.
> 
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> 
> [Vote Olicity for Ship of the Year!](http://fiacresgirl.tumblr.com/post/147548226189/mtv-vote-now-for-ship-of-the-year-by-liking-and)

Oliver slams a punch into the middle aged man’s face. This is supposed to be a longer fight, but this guy has clearly overestimated his fighting prowess. Men who make a lot of money often do. The man clutches his face and blood drips down into his chest hair and over his paunch. Oliver takes the opportunity to punch him there in the gut and then elbow him in the neck while he’s attempting to staunch the bleeding. It’s better if he signals this fight is winding down now as the damage will then be minimal. This New Russian is just here to prove his manhood to the stunning blonde and the brunette drinking vodka in the corner, anyway. They will help him back into his Mercedes and then blow him. They won’t have to worry about getting dirty because, even kneeling, those skirts won’t touch the pavement.

It’s time for Oliver to take his fall. This _biznessman_ must win this fight. The real fights come later in the evening, and only the winners walk away from those.  The New Russian hauls himself to his feet and throws a clumsy punch near Oliver’s shark scar, and Oliver fakes most of the impact. He lets the guy pummel him for a few minutes. The man kicks Oliver hard in the side to show how tough he is, and Oliver sees him nod at the women in satisfaction before he slips to the floor and “passes out.” The muscle running this game drag Oliver’s body out of the “ring” and toss him out the back. Before the padded door closes, Oliver hears the _biznessman_ make a derogatory comment about the size of his dick. He can’t help it, he smiles.

The alley smells like piss and blood, but it’s not too cold, and no one else is here. The light from the nearly full moon reflects off a small sea of broken glass on the ground. Oliver sits on an empty vodka crate and presses his hand into his side. That asshole’s shoes have metal toes, and he kicked that rib loose again. Oh, well. Oliver’ll get extra for that. He leans his head back against the chipped pastel stucco of the building, and thinks about home and why he’s not going back there.

Russia suits him. It seems appropriate that he should be here fighting for nothing, letting men who wouldn’t look him in the eye on the street take him in fights to impress women who won’t be impressed by anything except money. At least the people pay to torture him here. He’s not expected to volunteer for it like he was with Fyers or Waller.  

Minutes pass, a quarter of an hour maybe, and the door opens again. It’s the brunette. Oliver nods at her and she saunters a few steps and then stands there trying to look bored. She pulls out a cigarette and a silver lighter.

“Want one?” she asks.

Why not? Everyone here smokes all of the time, and it’s unlikely he’s going live long enough to die of lung cancer. He nods.

She takes out another cigarettes, walks over to him and holds it in front of his mouth. He lowers his jaw, and she pushes it in his mouth slowly. Then she flips open her lighter and bends over in front of him to light the cigarette. In the dim light of the fight club, she’d looked young, high school age maybe, but up close the lines on her face are obvious. The women here are beautiful, but life knocks them about early and hard.

He takes a drag on the cigarette, then bites on it and blows the smoke out. The tobacco burns his throat. Still, the warmth it leaves in his mouth relaxes him, and he sighs as he watches it leave him and cloud up the cold night air.

“You aren’t Russian,” the girl says in Russian.

“Of course,” he says. His vocabulary in this language is still rudimentary, basically limited to things he can point to and stuff he does every day. Russian is an exhausting language, the alphabet is the least of it. Still, after four months here, he’s more fluent in Russian than he was in Spanish after years of classes.  

“Are you an American?” she asks.

“Who wants to know?”

“I do,” she says. “Americans are very sexy.” She puffs once on her own cigarette and then lets her arm drop to her side.

“Not really,” he says.

“You lost that fight on purpose,” she says. “There’s no way Pavel Petrovich lost to _you_. Your pinky finger is bigger than his cock.”

He takes another drag of his cigarette and shifts his weight on the crate. She takes that for the invitation it wasn’t and sits down next to him. Her tiny skirt rides up, not accidentally. She’s not wearing anything underneath it.

“You could be my sponsor,” she says.

“No,” he says.

“Listen,” she says. “I’m very good. I could teach you things.”

He doubts it. He had a thorough education in _things_ back home, and what he’s learned since then could fill a library. None of it good.

“I don’t have money,” he says, getting that out of the way.

“You have a passport.”

“No,” he says. That’s the truth. His passport is at the bottom of the North China Sea.

“What’s your name?” she asks.

“Oleg,” he says, feeling himself smile a tiny bit. The name is pronounced more like “Alec” in Russian, but he pronounces it “Oh-leg” because it’s funnier that way. How funny his life is here in Russia. Yes sir, he’s a regular comedian.

“Oh-leg?” she says, looking confused. “Ah, you mean 'Oleg.'”

He nods.

“Nice to meet you, Oleg,” she says. “How ‘bout I try to persuade you I’m worth knowing?” she asks.

He shrugs. He should take a pass, walk away, but the truth is, he doesn’t care what she does. He doesn’t care if he wins the fight later tonight. He doesn’t care if this cigarette explodes in his mouth. He inhales another mouthful of nicotine and blows it out.

She expertly unzips his cargo pants, and climbs up on his lap. She wriggles her hips on top of him, and it appears a certain part of him is not entirely bored by her. She reaches in his pants and pulls out his cock. “You’re big,” she says. “I knew it. He’s just jealous. You can’t have a chest and,” she nods, “shoulders like that and have a shriveled cock like Pavel Petrovich’s.”

She leans down and kisses the side of his face with her full, soft lips. He feels the trace of her tongue on his scruffy beard as she strokes him below with her palm. He closes his eyes. She takes that for assent and moves to mount him. He grabs her by the elbow. “No,” he says.

Why doesn’t he let her? He doesn’t know. He’s not going to die of AIDS either. He’ll probably bleed out in tonight’s fight. Or tomorrow night’s. It’s not that, though. He just wants to be left alone. Why can’t people leave him alone?

“Piss off,” he says. “I don’t have anything to give you.”

She looks like she takes that for a challenge. “The old-fashioned way, then,” she says. She eases off of him, throws her cigarette into the dirt, bounces back on her haunches, and takes him in her mouth.

It’s warm and wet there, and she’s doing all of the right things with both her mouth and her hands. His body responds, and he braces himself against the crate and the wall. In between breaths she croons to him how amazing he is and how this is making her wet as her fingers moves expertly up and down his shaft. He closes his eyes and tries very hard to think of no one. Of nothing.

Why is that so difficult? He sucks harder on his cigarette and relishes the burn at the back of his mouth.

The woman on her knees puts her all into it, and he finally gives in to the pull and the eventual surge. At the moment he ejaculates, the image of a woman, a blond woman, flickers into his consciousness, but he can’t remember who she is. Does it matter? There have been a lot of blond women, even ones he’s cared about - Sara for one.

It’s not Sara, though. This woman isn’t sad, but she’s walking away from him. The clip-clop sound of her heels ring in his mind.

He opens his eyes. The brunette swallows and smiles at him. At this angle, with her shirt gapping away from her chest, he can see her breasts. There is a huge welt across one of them, and the other is covered with a hand-shaped bruise. He leans forward and touches it. “Did Pavel Petrovich do that?”

She winces and stands up, wobbling on her heels a bit. She turns her head away.

He says it again, harshly, “Pavel Petrovich, he did that?”

She nods. “He’s tired of me, but I have nowhere else to go.”

Oliver sighs heavily. For the price of one blow job he’s acquired himself an obligation. “I don’t need a pretty baby,” he says. Her face falls.

Fuck. The silence between them stretches out.

“I have two rooms in a communal apartment in Sretenka,” Oliver says finally. “Near Bolshaya Sukharevskaya. If I’m not dead after tonight’s fight, you’ll help me home. You can at least cook?”

The woman nods eagerly.

“No drugs,” he says.

“I’m not an addict,” she says. “I only drink when I have to.”

“Will he come after you?” He spits out his cigarette and grinds it under the heel of his boot.

She shakes her head. “He’s done with me, but his associates will harass me now that they know that.”

Oliver hold her eyes. “They won’t,” he says. “Stay clear of them until the fighting’s done. We’ll figure out what we can do about them later. You have belongings?”

“They’re at Pavel Petrovich’s,” she says.

“We’ll get those too,” Oliver says. “Tomorrow. You have a name?”

The woman offers a small, tremulous smile. “It’s Zhenya,” she says.

“Zhenya,” he says, zipping up his pants. “It’s nice to meet you. You can call me Oh-leg or whatever the hell you want.”


End file.
